“Plan B,” the cop said.
“Payment as usual?”
“Each of you will be contacted tomorrow.”
The man cracked his knuckles and smiled. “Instructions?”
“No.” She glanced back at Kit. “Do what you want with her, Dutch, just as long as she’s dead at the end of it.”
“No,” Kit said.
The woman gave her a long, hard look. “You can try your bribes with Dutch and his friends. But to be honest, I think you might find being dead a whole lot easier than being alive with them.”
The back door opened. Dutch reached in. Kit started fighting, screaming, trying to make as much noise as she could. Behind her, Alice finally moved. She wrapped her legs around Kit’s waist, pulling back, forcing Dutch to contend with the weight of two women.
“Fuckin’ shit,” muttered the big man as Kit slammed her heel into his face, rocking him back a step. “A little help here?”
The door behind Alice opened. The woman gasped, Kit heard a thud, and then Alice went limp all over again. This time it did not seem to be an act.
Dutch grabbed Kit’s ankles and yanked hard. She grabbed hold of the wire as she slid across the seat, clinging like a leech—until Officer Yu slammed the butt of her gun against Kit’s fingers. She had to do it twice before Kit would let go, and Kit hit the pavement hard on her back, kicking and screaming. Dutch swore, looking at Officer Yu. “You sure you don’t want to just shoot her?”
She shrugged. “We’re on a tight schedule. But you have a gun. Do it yourself.”
Dutch grunted and kicked shut the door. The police cruiser sped away, tires squealing as it disappeared around the containers.
Kit stopped fighting for one brief moment, looking around, taking stock—which was one woman against five men, most of whom were just now ambling over, tossing away their cigarettes with a finality that said those would be their last for a good long time.
Goddamn. She was in deep shit.
“I don’t suppose I could pay you not to kill me?” Kit craned her neck to look into Dutch’s small, narrow eyes.
“Nah,” he rumbled. “I’m not that kind of greedy.”
“Of course not,” she muttered, and let out a piercing scream. Dutch swore—dodged her knee to his groin—and swept his foot under her legs, knocking her flat on the concrete. She fell on the hard shell of her fiddle case, tried to catch a breath, and found a foot on her throat instead.
“Got us some brown sugar,” muttered a man, crouching close as Dutch applied more pressure on her vocal cords. Kit felt someone tug on her hair and she bared her teeth, kicking and writhing, trying to fight off the strong hands that caught her limbs and held her down. Her heart thundered. It was hard to breathe. She was going to die. Slow and awful.
She fought harder. The men laughed. Dutch said, “Take her to the container.”
A hand clamped over her mouth. It smelled like cigarettes and piss. Kit was lifted, dragged. She heard a loud clanging sound—a container door swinging open. The men still laughed, chatting each other up like it was a Saturday night and some football game was about to start. Kit wondered if there would be beer and chips.
The container loomed. The man who had opened its door disappeared inside. A flashlight beam cut the darkness within—but only for a moment. Kit heard an odd thud, so loud it cut through the laughter of the men, the roar of blood in her ears. The flashlight beam disappeared. Kit heard another thud, followed by a crunch like bone.
Something large flew out of the container, hitting the ground hard at their feet. It was the man who had gone in. He was dead—no question about it. The long pipe lodged in his chest made that fairly obvious. As did the fact that his head had been twisted so far around his body he had a fairly good view of his ass.
“Fuck,” breathed one of the men. The hand covering Kit’s mouth fell away, but she did not scream. She stayed very quiet, staring into the black mouth of the shipping container.
A shadow moved. Dutch let go of Kit. A gun appeared in his hand. She took a step back, and he made no move to grab her. None of the men did. They stared into the darkness, hands creeping beneath their shirts for weapons. Kit took another step away, and another. But she did not run. She could not. She heard music. Someone was singing.
A man stepped out of the container. Kit could not see his face, but it did not matter; it was his voice she was listening to, and it was like hearing Mozart in a raw sea full of quiet thunder, with darkness as a song. She wanted to play her fiddle against that mournful cry, then maybe lie down and die, because after it stopped, after it was gone, nothing else would ever do. Nothing else would matter. Kit felt ruined, as though she were listening to her heart break and fall in love, both at the same time—a feeling so impossible, so terrible and wonderful, she wanted to scream and cry.
She did neither, just stood there listening, warmth spreading through her body. Telling herself to run. Not caring if she did.
Dutch groaned. He stumbled backward, just one step, but even as he moved away, the other men lurched forward, legs stiff, like zombies. They stumbled right up to the storage container, and the man stepped aside as they entered the dark metal mouth, disappearing into the darkness. Kit watched, breathless, and inside her heart she felt a change in the song, a twist.
Gunfire rocked the air, echoing from within the shipping container like some terrible rack of cannons. Men screamed. Kit imagined them shooting each other, slaughtering one another at pointblank range, and though it was impossible, she also knew it was the truth.
The gunfire lasted only seconds. Kit never stopped watching the man in shadow, whose voice continued to hum. She felt his song change once again, and in her mind heard another melody, heartstrings plucking a tune. It seemed right, the perfect harmony; she sang it beneath her breath.
The man’s voice faltered. Dutch shuddered, shoulders sagging. His arm came up with the gun in hand. He aimed.
Kit slammed into Dutch just as he squeezed the trigger. The shot went wild. He hurled a punch at her, but she was ready and dodged. She had no time to duck the second blow, though; his fist rushed toward her face.
It never landed. A hand shot between Kit and Dutch, catching the big man’s fist. Kit stumbled away, staring. All she could see was a long, lean back, clad in black silk. A tall man, taller than Dutch. His hair was the color of jet, loose and thick.
He did not speak, nor did he sing, but his silence was almost as compelling. Kit heard bone crack, and Dutch went down on his knees, shuddering. His gun hand came up, but the dark man grabbed his wrist and bent it so far back his knuckles almost touched his forearm. Dutch screamed. His weapon clattered to the concrete.
“You should not have touched her,” said the stranger; quiet, soft, voice aching with power. “You should not have dreamed of it.”
Dutch’s scream died into a whimper. Kit backed away. She did not look where she was going; only, she suddenly knew what was going to happen, could see it in her head, painted upon Dutch’s red face, and she wanted distance, no more violence. Even if it was well deserved.
She kept moving, watched the man in black place his hands on either side of Dutch’s head. Closed her eyes at the last moment and suffered only the loud crack of a neck breaking.
Kit opened her eyes. Dutch slumped to the concrete. Dead, he did not look particularly big or strong. She liked him better that way. Not breathing.
His murderer, her rescuer, stood for a long moment staring at Dutch’s body. Kit did not think about being in danger. The violence she had just endured and witnessed went so far beyond anything she had experienced that the idea of one more threat seemed somehow trite. Still, she kept her mouth shut, gaze locked on that lean, strong back, tracing the lines of a body holding a voice that could only belong to someone not completely human.
And when the man finally turned to look at her,
not human
seemed entirely appropriate.
He was beautiful. Utterly, fantastically beautiful. Even in the poor light of the shipping yard, his skin seemed to glow; pale, flawless, his face full of elegant classical lines. Breathtakingly masculine.
Her awe did not last. She blinked and discovered blood. Blood against his throat, gushing from a hole the size of a baseball: a death sentence, wailing in her vision. The man in front of her was slated for murder. The future was turning on him. On her, as well.
Raw misery roared through her heart. If there was a final straw, then this was it, because this man who had saved her life—no matter who he was—did not deserve such an end. She did not deserve to see it. Not when the sound of his voice made her feel so much; not when the sight of his face, combined with what he had just done for her, made her feel something else entirely.
You can’t save him. You can’t even save Alice. Give it up. Let go.
But Kit could not look away, and she stumbled backward, staring into the stranger’s eyes. It was impossible to see their color, but his gaze was hot, piercing. The hard line of his mouth softened just a fraction.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, and again his voice put a hook into her heart; sinking, sinking deep. The lethal wound in his throat vanished, but not the memory. She put it away, though. She had spoken the truth earlier in the night, summoned up her courage for Alice—but that was different. This man was different. She could not tell him he was going to die.
“No,” Kit breathed, fighting the urge to close the distance between them. “You?”
He shook his head, giving Dutch a second glance. “I feel better.”
Kit did not know how to respond. She never had a chance to try. She glimpsed movement on her left, someone standing just within the shadow of another shipping container. Her brain registered the glint of metal held at waist level; a long barrel. She thought,
not again,
and stumbled backward.
The man in front of her moved. He ran toward her. He was very fast, but Kit still heard the gun fire, felt a burning against the side of her neck. She began to fall.
Strong arms caught her body, picked her up. Kit touched her neck. It was wet, hot. She was bleeding.
And then she was falling into the sea.
But despite the way he had been raised—with care and warnings, years and years distant—he had given it all away in a heartbeat. One bad choice. For love, or the illusion of it. And of all the mistakes he could have made, that was the worst. A gesture of apocalyptic foolhardiness; an act of extreme madness. He had lost his soul in love. He had lost the souls of others.
And until he saw Kitala Bell, he would have sworn on his life that he would never make the same mistake again.
He drove to the Queen Elizabeth. Gaining access to the theatre was simple—his voice gave him an unfair advantage over weak minds—but he was unprepared for what followed, for what he encountered as he entered that cold dark auditorium.
Power. Power and beauty. M’cal had never heard anything to match, not even amongst the Krackeni, and he recalled, like some idol of an ancient religion, his brief vision of Kitala on stage, her entire spirit coiled like a diamond spring; strong, vital, shining. Blinding his eyes and heart with terrible brilliance.
He had stood there, staring, enveloped in wild sounds that danced like heartbreak; crazed, giant. Listening to her made him feel things he should not. Made him remember things that hurt. Such as the witch and why he had loved her so—for her smile, her body, her face, for shallow pleasures that had overwhelmed and now shamed him.
But this woman, Kitala—her music went beyond beauty into the elemental, and thus, was far more dangerous. Because it was not shallow. And he was not ashamed to love it; to love each note like freedom, like peace, like the cold soft sweep of the sea or the thunder or the light of the moon. Her music made him remember he was not yet dead. It made him feel hope, and that was a cruel drug.
He could still hear Kitala’s music inside his head as he carried her over the edge of the shipping yard platform, turning as they fell so that he would bear the impact of the free fall into the water some fifteen feet below. He held her tight in his arms, this woman he was supposed to kill.
She did not scream, but he remembered that sound. Like murder. Like fear and loathing and all those emotions M’cal wished he could express every time the witch touched his body. Every time she forced him to hunt.
He hit the water hard and sank beneath the waves. Kitala struggled, but M’cal refused to release her. For good reason. A small object hissed past his ear—a bullet. Someone was shooting into the water. He took them deeper.
The sea burned his skin. So did Kitala’s touch. He ignored the pain, shifting his lungs, feeling gills spread against his neck, just beneath his hairline. Kit’s eyes were squeezed shut, mouth clamped tight. Bubbles fled her nose. He felt the strain in her body, her frantic desperation as she thrashed against him. Drowning, slowly.
M’cal breathed, endured the agony of saltwater, and grabbed her nose with his free hand. He pinched it shut. Placed his mouth over hers. Waited for her to run out of air.
It happened fast. Poor lung capacity combined with too much stress. She opened her mouth and he pressed hard against her, breathing into her body. She fought him, but only for a moment, and he patiently held tight, waiting for her to grow accustomed to breathing in such an odd—and intimate—manner.
Kitala tasted like mint. Her mouth was soft and warm. So was her body. It did not matter that touching her felt like being wrapped in jellyfish venom. He could feel her past the pain; could still hear her remarkable music. Singing right down to his soul.
Do not think too hard. Do not feel. Her soul is yours. You must take it. Either way, the witch will compel you.
He could do it now. It would be so easy. Just one breath. One song, rising from his throat. He could feel the monster waiting.
But the compulsion was not there, not yet. The witch was still giving him the opportunity to choose— that awful choice, which she took such pleasure in. Kitala still had a chance, just as long as she could get away from him. Far and fast, that was the only answer. Assuming she survived long enough to leave the city. That was another mystery—that someone else should want her dead—because what he had just seen and followed and prevented was nothing short of a very focused extermination. And once the last gunman revealed that Kitala still lived, while her would-be murderers did not.. .
M’cal’s hand tightened around her waist. Kitala’s eyes opened just a sliver. He doubted very much she could see anything, but he pretended that she could, that she knew him, that he was not alone. And when her mouth moved beneath his, he pretended, for a moment, that it was a kiss. Something more than mere survival.
Kitala’s fingers dug into his shoulders. She still tasted good. No pain in that, at least. He almost wished there would be. He was feeling things that were entirely unhealthy. And unexpected.
He kicked gently, propelling them through the water. He could hear her heartbeat throbbing with the pulse of the city, with his own blood, and felt her fiddle case bang against his wrist. He carried them out into Coal Harbor, away from the shipping yard and its ghosts and guns, and slowly brought them to the surface.
The moment their heads broke free of the water, Kitala pushed away from his mouth, gasping and blinking water out of her eyes. M’cal did not let her go far; he kept her within the circle of his arms, treading water as she clung to him, orienting herself. Her neck looked raw, but the rest of her was still perfect. A wild mass of curls, weighed down by seawater, framed a delicate face. High cheekbones, dark eyes, skin the color of caramel. Earthy, wild, raw and lovely. Just like her music.
I
wish I never saw you,
he thought.
I
wish I did not know you existed.
He expected Kitala to speak, but she did not; she merely stared at him, haunted. She shuddered inside the circle of his arms, and he realized his mistake. She was cold. The water was freezing. He had to get her out, fast. For a moment, though, all he could do was look into her eyes, watching that lingering fear fade into something intelligent and far too perceptive.
“You kept me alive down there,” she said faintly, teeth beginning to chatter. “You, and nothing else.”
Very perceptive. M’cal ignored her unspoken question, tearing his gaze away to study the shore. His car was parked near the shipping yard, but that area was still dangerous. The marina was farther away and little better; the witch would feel him near, posing another, worse risk. M’cal drew Kitala close. Her body hurt him, but he savored the contact; just the same as he embraced the sea, which was a far greater agony.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he told her softly, trying to keep his voice steady. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”
Kitala stared. “I don’t understand.”
“Hypothermia,” he replied. “The water is too cold for you. I need to swim you back to shore. I was foolish to bring you out here.”
“No alternative.” She touched her neck with a shaking hand. “There was a gun.”
M’cal pulled her hand away and rested his own along her collarbone, his palm burning as he peered at the long red welt, rough enough to have bled. He tried not to think of it deeper, the bullet true, and he looked into her dark eyes. “Why were those men going to kill you?”
Kitala’s jaw tightened. “I saw something I shouldn’t. Got involved.”
“Just that?” he pressed.
“Isn’t that enough?” Kitala looked away from him, back to shore. “Are you going to breathe for me again?”
M’cal brushed his thumb against her cheek. She burned him, but he swallowed the pain and said, “Hold tight.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked, but her arms settled around his neck and those long legs curled tight against his hips. He tugged her even closer. Her mouth quirked. “A little too friendly, don’t you think?”
Yes,
M’cal thought, but all he said was, “You should pinch your nose.”
She did, with only a moment’s hesitation and a deep breath. M’cal sank them beneath the waves.
He did not wait to kiss her. Nor did she resist. The moment his mouth pressed over hers, she parted her lips, breathing carefully. He lost himself for a moment, had to concentrate to manage swimming and holding her at the same time. He wished he could shift his body, but the clothes confined him, as did Kitala’s presence. Breathing for her would create questions enough.
Not that it mattered. For the first time in years he wanted to hold someone. He wanted to hold
her.
He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted that fear in her eyes—the cold fear those men had made her feel—to disappear. He did not understand those feelings; familiar, but not. So much had been taken from him.
It was difficult to maintain contact. The pain worsened, as did his unease. At any moment the witch might force the compulsion upon him, as she had earlier in the night with Elsie. She played tricks, always changing from one victim to the next. The witch could not read his thoughts or know what he was doing, but that did not mean she would shy away from enforcing her power. She seemed to want Kitala so badly. A mystery; one he was distracted from for a brief moment when he felt something brush close.
Brother seal, still spying.
M’cal did not take Kitala back to the shipping yard, but instead to a tiny inlet on its outskirts. There was a beach, a park, with easy access by foot to where he had left his car. It was quite possible the last gunman would think to look for them there, but M’cal was ready this time, as he had been for the others.
They surfaced thirty feet off the shore, like seals, poking their heads above water. There were people on the beach, but not many, and those M’cal saw seemed engaged in activities that would preclude caring about a man and woman dragging themselves out of the harbor.
The last stretch was difficult for him. In his other body, the body of his birth, he might have lasted longer, but his skin felt like it was on fire, like he was soaking in acid, and it was too much. He had to let go of Kitala, but she was a stronger swimmer than he imagined and kept pace with him until their knees banged against the rocks and they could stand.
Kitala fell several times before she found her balance. M’cal sensed it had less to do with weariness than a sudden loss of adrenaline and the punch of shattered nerves. Either way, the last time she stumbled it was quite clear she was almost ready to give up and crawl. M’cal did not want to see that. He wrapped his arm around her waist, helping her stand, holding her steady.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, her hand buried in the front of his shirt. A tremor raced through her body, a bone-deep chill. Her fiddle case banged against his burning arm.
He grunted. “Can you walk? My car—”
“I can get there,” she interrupted, shivering. “Just point me in the right direction.”
They sloshed out of the ocean, dripping, and walked from the beach to the grass, cutting across the small park to the road. M’cal let go of Kitala when he thought she could stand on her own. He did not want to, but he needed the distance. He touched his bracelet. The metal was warm.
They arrived at the road and turned left. M’cal focused on staying upright. His clothing was soaked in seawater; until he stripped down and dried off, he was going to be very uncomfortable.
“What’s your name?” Kitala asked. Her teeth chattered.
“M’cal,” he answered, without thinking.
“Interesting,” she said, rubbing her arms. “That doesn’t sound like a western name.”
“I did not choose it.”
“I didn’t mean anything.” She gave him a curious look, her gaze flickering down to his throat. She seemed to flinch, though it might have been the cold.
Glancing away from him, she said, “My name is Kit.
Kit Bell.”
Not Kitala?
M’cal wanted to ask, but he stayed silent.
The street was dark. M’cal heard men talking, glass shattering, but nothing near. No sign of that last gunman. He moved a little closer to Kitala. She glanced up at him, a question in her eyes. No fear. Nothing like that. He thought of the violence she had experienced—the violence she had seen him commit— and wondered how she could still be so calm. How she could look at him as a man, a person, when no one else seemed to.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything.”
He could feel the monster inside his throat, waiting. “Do not thank me.”
Again, that sharpness in her eyes. “Why?”
He didn’t answer. He saw his car, parked beneath a tree, between a truck and a rusty minivan. He had a Porsche, a gleaming black Cayman. A gift from the witch for services rendered. She bought him everything he needed, but only because she knew he hated it. His clothes, the vehicle—all were reminders that she owned him. That he was her toy.
M’cal unlocked the car and gave Kitala the keys. “Take it. Go.”
She stood there, staring. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
He opened the driver-side door. “It is safer for you without me.”
Kit stared. “You saved my life.”
M’cal grabbed her arm. His palm burned, but he held on tight and tried shoving her inside the Porsche, mercilessly using his strength. She slammed one foot against the side of the car and pushed back. M’cal leaned close to her ear. She smelled like the sea.
“I was sent here to kill you,” he rasped, jerking her around to face him. “I am still supposed to kill you. And I will, if you do not leave this place.
Right now.”